


Surprise Me

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M, Riding Crop, Rimming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds out he likes being surprised...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surprise Me

They’d resolved the case; they were finished for the day. John starts to get up.

“Are we done here?” Lestrade shifts the file to one side.

“No.” Sherlock hadn’t moved. “Lestrade likes to do fake drug busts, I prefer real experiments.”

“What are you on about?” John asks, thoroughly confused. 

Sherlock leans back in his chair, staring at Lestrade with intensity. “The process of arousal.”

John coughs.

Lestrade merely shifts slightly, looking mildly uncomfortable.

“You should know, John, that I made Lestrade hard twice during my explanations of this particular case. The first time was when I said the word, ‘penetrate,’ very textbook stuff, no need for analysis there. The second time was when I touched my neck.”

“Why would that do it?’ John just looks at him.

“I have a very nice neck.” Sherlock reflects. “As such, his pupils dilated, he wanted to touch me, possibly to stroke my neck, but he resisted the urge because he’s a professional…because he’s afraid I don’t share his lust, let alone his affection.”

“Are we done here?” Lestrade repeats more sharply. 

“We’re done whenever you can stand up, Inspector.” Sherlock says smoothly. 

John looks at Lestrade who doesn’t move. “Oh.”

“Shut it.” Lestrade says tightly. “Get out of my office.”

“Of course.” Sherlock gets to his feet smoothly. “Remember, Lestrade, it stops being pretend if we find anything.” He glances pointedly at the desk, smiles, and leaves.

John looks at Lestrade carefully. “Really?"

Lestrade didn’t deign to reply. 

 

“What was that all about?” John demands as they walk along. 

“Lestrade has wanted to have sex with me ever since we first started working together. Every once in a while I like to remind him of what he can’t have.” Sherlock strides faster. John hurries to catch up, trying to make sense of this. 

“That’s…cruel.” 

“I’m often cruel. Why does this surprise you now?”

“Lestrade’s a colleague. He goes through a lot to keep you on cases.”

“Your point being?”

“I don’t understand.” John says finally. 

“I like to keep him in his place.”

“What, frustrated and angry? Yeah, that’ll go over well.” John turns away in disgust. He doesn’t say anything for three minutes. Sherlock counts.

“You really think it’s bad?” Sherlock asks, merely sounding curious. 

“I think it’s cruel.” John repeats. “If I were him, I wouldn’t work with you.” 

“Mhmm.” Sherlock shrugs it off.

 

“John thinks I’m being cruel to you.” Sherlock observed over the next corpse.

“Oh good.” Lestrade pulls down his mask. “I’m glad that this is the discussion we’re having, right here, over the corpse of…”

“Jenny Simmons, died of poisoning,” Sherlock sounds dismissive. 

“I’m also glad you’ve discussed this with John.” Lestrade says through his teeth. “Jenny Simmons, eh?”

“Missing at least a few days. Possibly a week.” Sherlock pulls his coat closer. “Am I?”

“Are you what?” Lestrade is still looking at the body intently.

“Being cruel.” Sherlock tilts his head, watching him.

Lestrade considers his words carefully. Whatever he says, Sherlock would make of it whatever he wanted. “I’m used to it,” is all he says at last. The words he’d considered wouldn’t have done any good. _Definitely doesn’t quell the fantasy._

Sherlock eyes him, as he tried to work it out. “The effect my words have on you…my voice. You hide it fairly well from the others.” It sounds like an insult, but from Sherlock it could almost be considered a compliment. Almost. 

“But not from you. “ Lestrade mutters.

“No, not from me.” Sherlock agrees. “You’re hard right now. You’ve been examining a dead woman, and yet you’re aroused by me.”

“Don’t rub it in.” Lestrade says stiffly, moving away.

“I’m not rubbing anything. I merely wish to…”

“What?” Lestrade turns around and then Sherlock’s hand is on him, cupping him lightly through his trousers. Lestrade takes a deep breath. “What in god’s name are you doing?”

“Assessing.”

“Assessing. Assessing what?”

“How erect you are? I thought that was fairly obvious, even to someone of your years.” Sherlock smirks slightly, as he strokes Lestrade lightly, then lets go. “What’s the matter, Inspector? Has it been a while? Six months, is my estimate. Possibly longer.”

Lestrade grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. “Do you have any other observations about the missing girl?” He doesn't miss Sherlock's fingers on him. He _doesn't._

“No. Why six months? I’m sure you could have wangled something by now, some woman in a pub, or possibly a young man. Unless, I’m the only male you’re attracted to.” He tilts his head to one side, considering. “That seems possible, but unlikely. I’m betting,”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Lestrade cuts him off, walking out. He’s halfway down the stairs by the time Sherlock leans over the banister.

“If it’s any consolation, I doubt he remembers it either.”

Lestrade freezes, looking up at Sherlock with startled eyes, then abruptly, they grow cold. He presses his lips together and goes out to fill in the rest of the team.

_Interesting_ , Sherlock thinks. 

_How the bloody hell does he know?_ Lestrade resists punching the wall. He barely remembers the drunken encounter with the man in the pub. He remembers teeth and lips and waking up the next morning with dried spunk on his trousers. But he doesn't remember the man's face, or his voice, or his name. Then again, he doesn't particularly want to.

 

The next time it doesn’t take Lestrade very long at all to lose his temper. He hasn’t slept in three days, he’s exhausted and two people are dead. 

Sherlock takes one look at him and says, “If you masturbated more, you’d sleep better.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade warns him. He’s worried, stressed, frayed to the fucking bone, and he will not tolerate this. Not right now. 

“Or is that why you’re so…disheveled? Possibly you have been wanking rather more than the usual. Is that why,”

“You’re off the case.” Lestrade bites out. He can’t do this any more. He won’t do this any more. 

“Are you absolutely certain you want to do that, Inspector? Lives may be at stake.”

“Read my lips. You’re off the case.” 

Sherlock’s lips tighten. “Fine.” He stalks out, his coat swishing silkily as he does.

Lestrade reaches for his coffee, which is cold. He stares at it for a long moment, then tosses it in the waste basket. “Somebody get me some fresh coffee.” He has a case to work on.

 

Sherlock arrives at the flat and stands in the middle of the room for a span of five minutes. He’s not entirely sure what just transpired. Apparently, he hit the last nerve, but he can’t decide whether it was the fact that he mentioned Lestrade’s masturbatory habits, or that the man was overtired. Possibly a combination of the two, or possibly…

“I thought there was a case?” John calls from the kitchen as he puts the kettle on.

“Apparently, I’m not needed for this one.” Sherlock takes off his coat and hangs it up. He goes to his laptop, and just sits there. 

“Really?” John brings him his tea when it's ready.

“Lestrade told me I was off it.” 

“Lestrade…took you off a case?” John considers that. “What on earth did you do?”

“I gather he doesn’t like his sexual habits to be discussed in public.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” John just stares at him. “Nobody likes that, Sherlock. Nobody likes that when they’re working on a murder case, and nobody likes it if it’s done by someone they’re actually attracted to. Now, just…stop.” He waves his hand and goes into the kitchen.

“Stop what exactly?”

“Whatever game you’re playing with Lestrade. Just…stop.”

Sherlock locks his fingers and looks at his laptop. “But I want to win.” He murmurs very quietly. 

 

A week later - 

Lestrade straightens his tie, takes a deep breath and raps on the door.

“Come in.” 

Sherlock is sitting the chair facing the door, waiting for him. 

“You can say whatever you like to me. Will you come?” He really wishes he’d phrased that differently, adding hastily, “On the case. I…we…need you.”

Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow. “And after?”

“After?” Lestrade is confused, and then annoyed, “After, you can continue saying whatever the hell you like.”

Sherlock looks thoughtful.

“Please.” Lestrade manages to say it with good grace.

“All right.” Sherlock gets to his feet. “How old?”

Of course he's guessed what had made Lestrade given in. “Nine.” Lestrade says hoarsely. He wishes he didn’t care as much; he wishes it didn’t show that clearly. But mostly he’s just relieved when Sherlock reaches for his coat without another word. 

Amazingly enough, Sherlock holds his tongue for the rest of the afternoon. It takes him three hours to solve the case and find the girl. Three hours. Lestrade is maliciously pleased about that. He’s sorry the girl was held for three more hours, but he doesn't mind Sherlock being stumped for that amount of time. It’s petty. Lestrade freely admits that. It had taken him a week after all to get to that point.

 

Lestrade puts his desk to rights. Well, half rights, he’s shuffling papers around on it as he wonders if he has the energy for a drink. Whether he should go to a pub, or just go home. His movements still as he grows aware of Sherlock standing in the doorway.

“Well?” Lestrade demands wearily. 

Sherlock closes the door firmly. “The case is closed.”

“Yes.” Lestrade admits reluctantly.

“And I have been very good.” Sherlock sounds rather smug about it.

Lestrade grits his teeth. “Yes, you have.”

“I’d like a reward.” Sherlock leans on the desk, looking at him. 

“Oh? And what did you have in mind?”

“I want to fuck you.”

Lestrade coughs, reaching for his coffee mug. It contains two day old coffee, but it’s still liquid. He chokes it down. “Would you…no, don’t repeat it.” He doesn’t want to hear the words again. His cock is already straining at his trousers from Sherlock’s statement.

“I don’t want you.” Lestrade says at last, letting the words resound through the silence. 

“Your cock says differently.” Sherlock sounds bored.

“Yeah. Well, my cock is not the boss of me.” Lestrade is well aware that he sounds like he’s fifteen. He glares at Sherlock. “It’s true. I don’t want to have sex with you, I don’t want to be humiliated by you, I don’t.”

“You think I’d humiliate you?”

Lestrade’s patience is wearing thin. “That’s all you ever do. You act like I’m a complete and utter idiot, and yes, I know you’re cleverer than me and the entire world combined, but that doesn’t make me a fool.” He stops, thinks about all the things he’s done, all the experience he’s had. Sexual experience that Sherlock couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Fucking sociopath.

“You think you’d surprise me.” Sherlock sounds a tad surprised already. Surprised and amused, that Lestrade could ever even contemplate such a notion. 

“Yes. I do.” The certainty in Lestrade’s voice surprises himself, but it also intrigues Sherlock. The firm surety of his voice makes Sherlock study him more closely, watching him with intensity. “And,” Lestrade feels his way carefully. “I think you’d like it.”

Sherlock snorts. “I have had sex, you know.” 

“Oh, yes, I know.” Lestrade murmurs. 

“What?”

“Sherlock, I was there during your drug phase, remember?”

Lestrade doesn’t like to think about that time too much…and yet sometimes he can’t help remembering those days. Sherlock, thinner than he is now, christ almighty what a thought…needy and desperate, willing to do anything for a case, for distraction. Lestrade particularly doesn’t like to think about one of the last drug busts he did, when he found Sherlock engaged in some rather energetic fucking with a man who looked like a drug dealer. They had arrested the man (he had twelve grams of coke on him. Turns out he was a drug dealer…) and Lestrade couldn’t help showing the disgust he had felt at the idea of Sherlock trading himself for fucking drugs. _His perfect self_ , his mind supplies helpfully. 

That’s why Sherlock doesn’t like drugs busts. That’s why he enjoys taunting Lestrade about wanting him, because he knows Lestrade won’t fight back. Well, he’s wrong on one account.

“Are you done reminiscing?” Sherlock says coldly. 

“Yes.” Lestrade says, rubbing at his jaw. He’s tired. He wants to go home and not deal with this ever again. But Sherlock won’t just go away. He toys with the idea of making Sherlock come over to his place, but he doesn’t really want memories of this, whatever is about to happen, at his flat. He wants somewhere to go afterward, so it’ll have to be Sherlock’s. 

“Is John at home?”

“Most likely.” Sherlock is still eyeing him.

“Does noise bother him?” Lestrade reaches for his coat.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You think there’ll be sound loud to enough to pass through the walls?” His tone makes such a thing sound very unlikely.

“Yes,” Lestrade smiles. “I do.”

“Well then, let’s see.” Sherlock strides out ahead of him.

“I can’t believe I’m fucking do this.” Lestrade murmurs. “Can’t believe I’m fucking doing _that_.” He watches Sherlock as he follows him to the lift, into a taxi. 

 

The ride to Baker Street is silent. Sherlock is texting, for god’s sake.

“What’re you doing?”

“Trying to ascertain whether or not we have milk.”

“What?” 

“Tea. Later. Or before. It doesn’t matter. It’s the little things that count.” Sherlock drawls. “Or so they say.”

Lestrade just stares at him, and then he laughs. 

“Was that funny?” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock purses his lips. He hadn’t been trying to be funny; he’d thought he was doing something…well, nice for the other man. Well, that and he wanted tea himself, obviously. He decides to leave it at that for now. It doesn’t need explaining.

 

They arrive at the flat. Either John’s out or in his room. Strangely, Lestrade doesn’t care. He’s going to do this, and afterwards…well, afterwards maybe he’ll get drunk and never see Sherlock ever again. 

“Cold feet, Inspector?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “That seems.”

“Oh shut up.” Lestrade brushes past him, up the stairs and into Sherlock’s bedroom. It’s tidier than he expected, but then he probably doesn’t spend that much time actually in his room. At least the bed appears to be clean. Lestrade walks around the room, thinking about various things. Things he wants to do. To Sherlock, in particular. 

“Are you done?” Sherlock inquires from the doorway. He’s taken off his coat, leaving him in that slim suit. Lust flares in Lestrade’s gut. It’s the first time he’s ever allowed himself to really look at Sherlock openly. He licks his lips. 

“What?”

“Checking the room to make sure it’s clean enough for whatever you want to do.”

“I want to fuck you.” Lestrade says bluntly. He’s wanted to for years, and he knows that Sherlock knows that.

“Ah.” Sherlock considers this. “Is that how you’re going to surprise me? You being on top, being in control.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re surprised,” Lestrade retorts, taking his own coat off and tossing it on a chair. He hasn’t had a shower since yesterday. He wonders if Sherlock will even care.

“I’m not. You’re in charge all day, running around with your little team of police people. It’d be far more surprising if you wanted to be dominated.”

“Now that’s just cliché.” Lestrade chuckles. 

“Really?” 

“To assume that I want control to be taken away from me because I have so much of it in my every day life.” Lestrade shakes his head. “Take your clothes off?”

Sherlock looks at him steadily, and for a second Lestrade thinks he’s going to refuse. Then he unbuttons his jacket and strips it off gracefully, laying to one side of Lestrade’s coat. He reaches for the first button of his shirt.

“Trousers next.” Lestrade sits on the side of the bed, resting his hands on his knees. 

Sherlock complies, unbuttoning them, slipping out of them. He’s wearing thin briefs and Lestrade catches his breath. Sherlock eyes him, then slips them off. His cock is just poking out from under the hem of the shirt. 

Lestrade stands up. He walks over to Sherlock, slipping his hand under Sherlock’s shirt, catching his cock between his fingers. He says nothing at all, just strokes him, caressing him until Sherlock speaks finally.

“Are you going to do that all, nhhh.” His cheeks flush and he glares at Lestrade who just runs his nails lightly over him again. 

“On the bed, on your back.” He orders, reaching into his jacket for the item he brought. 

“Handcuffs. How very policeman of you.” Sherlock murmurs, but he stretches out on the bed obligingly enough. 

“Hands above your head.” Lestrade cuffs him to the headboard, tight enough that he can’t escape (he knows Sherlock after all) but loose enough that there’s some give. Then he steps back, surveying the scene. Sherlock is relaxed enough, although his cock is still jutting out from under his shirt. Definite interest. That’s something at least. 

Lestrade undresses swiftly. He doesn’t need to look at Sherlock to know the other man is assessing his body. Lestrade’s older, but he’s still fit enough. Well, for this at least. 

He kneels between Sherlock’s legs, pushing them further apart. Then he undoes the last button of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling it back, to reveal Sherlock’s cock. It’s long, and curved slightly, nestled amongst dark curls. Lestrade has imagined this for a long long time. He’s going to enjoy this. 

“Don’t take all night.” Sherlock murmurs impatiently, twitching his hips slightly. 

“Why not?” Lestrade traces his thumb down the curve of Sherlock’s shaft. “I have all night. You’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s,” Sherlock makes a small stifled noise as Lestrade leans down and licks from the head of his cock to the base. He looks up at the consulting detective and grins.

“What were you saying?”

Sherlock just stares at him. “Do that again.”

“What, this?” Lestrade licks harder this time and Sherlock arches off the bed before he stop himself.

“Yes.” He pants. “That.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Lestrade murmurs.

“What, why not?”

The answer lies in Lestrade’s next action. He swallows Sherlock down in one swift move, adjusting slightly so that he’s not choking himself. Sherlock moans, and that’s a triumph in itself. Lestrade moves his tongue and watches Sherlock writhe helplessly. He could get used to this. 

Lestrade takes Sherlock right to the brink and then pulls off. 

“What’re…you doing?” Sherlock pants at him heatedly. 

Lestrade just grins. “You really thought I was going to let you come that quickly?”

“Why not?” Sherlock pulls at the cuffs in frustration. 

“Because I want to take my time.” Lestrade pats Sherlock’s thigh and gets up. He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket and turns around.

“Lestrade.”

“Hold still.” He snaps a careful picture of the man cuffed to the bed, making certain he gets the fully erect cock in the shot, then he puts it away. Sherlock’s glaring at him.

“If this is simply petty revenge.”

“Hardly.” Lestrade murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s smooth stomach. He glances up to see Sherlock studying him intently. Lestrade moves up to kiss him. At first Sherlock is unresponsive, then he parts his lips and allows Lestrade entrance. 

Lestrade kisses Sherlock for some time, enjoying the feel of the other man’s mouth engaged in something other than sarcastic observations for once. Sherlock’s lips are soft and Lestrade likes kissing him. But he still has other plans for the evening, so at last he pulls back regretfully.

“That,” Sherlock runs his tongue over his lips thoughtfully, “was not unpleasant.”

“I’m so relieved.” Lestrade mutters dryly. He checks Sherlock’s cock, still hard, thankfully. He takes the key and unlocks one of Sherlock's wrists. Then, before Sherlock realizes what he's doing, he takes the man by the hips and rolls him quickly onto his stomach, cuffing him again so he's trapped flat on his stomach. 

“Lestrade!” Sherlock objects immediately. “What are you doing?”

“I said I was going to fuck you, but first…” He rests a hand against Sherlock’s ass, smooth and pale and perfect. “I have an idea.”

“That’s astonishing.” Sherlock twists his head sideways to look at him witheringly. “Do try not to strain yourself as you struggle through the process. Ow!”

Lestrade examines the slap mark with some satisfaction. “If I want commentary, I’ll take a workshop.” He gets up and goes over to Sherlock’s closet.

“What are you looking for?”

“I’m sure you can guess.” Lestrade checks behind the coats and suits, and there, lying on the shelf is the riding crop he once saw Sherlock carrying around with him. Perfect. He picks it up and takes it back to the bed. 

Sherlock looks at him over the shoulder. “That’s your choice? You could have gone for the scimitar.”

“Clearly you’ve never been spanked properly.” Lestrade traces from Sherlock’s tailbone, up his spine to his neck. He watches as the other man tries to not shiver under the crop’s light touch.

“No.” Sherlock says, as though it’s the dullest thing he’s ever heard of.

“Not even when you were small?” 

“I had a tutor once, who seemed to relish punishing me, but then I enjoyed tormenting him so it was all equal.” 

“How old were you?” 

“Thirteen.” 

“I see.” Lestrade brings the crop down quite hard across Sherlock’s buttocks.

“Gahhh!”

He does it again, savoring the way Sherlock’s body rocks forward with the blow, knowing the motion must cause friction between the blankets and Sherlock’s cock. Lestrade settles into an easy rhythm. He wonders how long it will take to get Sherlock where he wants him. To his private satisfaction, it doesn’t take long at all.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock gasps.

“Yes?” Lestrade lets the crop fall again, enjoying the sight of Sherlock’s ass, now reddened from the stimulation. 

“I.” Sherlock tenses as the crop hits his ass yet again and his hips jerk. “Fuck,” he manages, coming over the bedclothes messily. 

Lestrade smiles. He lays the riding crop to one side and pulls the drawer to Sherlock’s beside table open. There he finds condoms and lubricant amongst the vials, notes, keys and other miscellanea, as he fully suspected he would. 

He settles between Sherlock’s legs, rock hard in anticipation.

“What’re you doing?” Sherlock asks again. He sounds sleepy now. 

“Did you forget?” 

“What?”

“I said I was going to fuck you.” Lestrade leans down and kisses Sherlock’s right ass cheek very gently.

Sherlock hisses slightly. “But,” he hisses again as Lestrade repeats the gesture on his other cheek. “I’ve already orgasmed.”

“And I haven’t.” Lestrade says calmly, putting the condom on. “What makes you think this is all about you, about your pleasure, eh?” He slicks his fingers and presses one into Sherlock gently. He doesn’t want to hurt him, he just wants to show Sherlock that he’s capable of surprising him. 

Sherlock tenses slightly. 

“Relax.” Lestrade murmurs, moving slowly. 

“I am relaxed. I believe that was your entire purpose in making me orgasm first.”

“Well, partly.” Lestrade admits, easing another finger into Sherlock. “And partly because I just wanted to spank you.”

Sherlock thinks about that for a second. “Why?”

“It’s enjoyable.” Lestrade adds a third finger, working Sherlock open carefully. “You have no idea how enticing you look laid out like this, with your ass…”

“Yes, what about my ass?”

“It’s beautiful like, all flushed…” Lestrade presses a palm to one cheek. He's gratified by the swift intake of breath from Sherlock. “You’ll be sore for at least three days. Every single time you sit down, you’ll think about this, you’ll think about me, and how you felt, with your cock between you and the bedclothes.”

“I never realized you harbored such monologue tendencies, Inspector.”

“How could you? You never shut up long enough to let anyone else get a word in edgewise.” Lestrade pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the blankets. He positions himself and thrusts in. 

The angle could be better, but he’s inside Sherlock Holmes, and Lestrade never honestly thought this would happen in a hundred years. He eases out, then pushes himself back in again. This time Sherlock thrusts back to meet him. 

“Come on, Inspector.” Sherlock murmurs. 

Lestrade leans over him and bites his neck as he thrusts deeper. “Careful what you ask for.” He mutters, gripping Sherlock’s hips as he fucks him harder. Sherlock is murmuring wordless sounds, and it’s fucking music to Lestrade’s ears, but he hasn’t forgotten the way Sherlock sounded disparaging about noise. How he doubted Lestrade’s ability to produce that level of abandon in anyone, most of all Sherlock. Lestrade resents this. He rocks backward, running his hands over Sherlock’s buttocks, squeezing and pulling at them.

“Lestrade, gahh,” Sherlock is squirming helplessly as Lestrade draws his cheeks apart, pulling out and then thrusting himself back inside of Sherlock’s tight, slick heat. Sherlock moans, and Lestrade does it again, sweating slightly with the slow force of the motion. 

Sherlock moans again, and that’s good, but Lestrade wants to make him fucking scream. He pulls out and lifts Sherlock’s hips slightly, parting his cheeks, revealing Sherlock’s fucked open hole. He dips his tongue to the entrance and presses in. 

“FUCK.” Sherlock roars, jerking helplessly. “Lestrade.”

“I like it when you say my name.” Lestrade licks across Sherlock’s hole, flicking his tongue inside once again. This time he pushes further, fucking Sherlock with his tongue, enjoying the way Sherlock’s whole body is convulsing around him. 

“Please. Fu….” Sherlock is muttering incoherently again as he finally pulls his tongue out. This time, Lestrade pushes his cock straight in, hitting Sherlock’s prostrate. The sound Sherlock makes then goes straight to Lestrade’s cock, and he comes at long last, exactly where he wants to - buried inside Sherlock Holmes. 

When he can breathe again, Lestrade sits back on his knees. He’ll be sore tomorrow no doubt, but at the moment he’s immensely pleased with himself. He eases out of Sherlock slowly and rolls over onto his back with a sigh. 

Sherlock twists his head to look at him. “Uncuff me.” He demands. 

Lestrade doesn’t want to. He would prefer to keep Sherlock like this for a week at least, but he gets up, running a hand over Sherlock’s flank one last time. He knows this isn’t going to happen again, although one can always hope. He recovers the key and unfastens the cuffs, freeing Sherlock’s wrists. For a second he lets himself linger over those wrists, just touching them, and then he moves away, tucking the handcuffs back into his jacket pocket.

When he turns around Sherlock is sitting up gingerly. He looks up at Lestrade. “You’re right.” 

“What?” Lestrade stares at him. 

Sherlock gets to his feet slowly. “It’s impossible to move without thinking about you.” 

Lestrade blushes and Sherlock takes a step closer. “Did that live up to all your fantasies, Inspector?”

“No.” Lestrade says, amused slightly at Sherlock‘s look of surprise. “I have a fairly vivid imagination.”

“So I see.” Sherlock closes the distance between them. “You have indeed, surprised me.” The words are almost tender and Lestrade doesn’t know what to make of this. “You can let yourself out. I need a shower.”

Now that sounds more like Sherlock. Lestrade watches until the slim ass he’s lusted after for years is out of sight, and only then does he make a move to get dressed. 

When he reaches the sitting room he finds John sitting at his desk over his open laptop. 

“You going then?” John looks up.

“Yeah.” Lestrade hesitates, wondering if he should say something. He’s almost embarrassed, but he’ll be damned if he apologizes for making Sherlock moan. He’s still fucking pleased about that. 

“Right.” John nods to himself. “Look, Lestrade.” 

“Goodnight, John.” Lestrade leaves before he can get any variation of any post-sex speech he’s ever had. It’s bad enough when one gets a speech from the person one’s just had sex with, but getting it from the best friend is ridiculous. 

He gets a taxi and goes home.

 

Sherlock takes a shower, fascinated by the sensation of the hot water against the overly sensitive skin of his torso. He had no idea that Lestrade could wield a riding crop so effectively. He files this information away for future reference. All in all, the experience had been most enjoyable. 

He dries himself off, puts on his pajamas and bathrobe and goes downstairs. When he’s making tea he realizes that he never gave any tea to Lestrade. Oh, well next time. He takes his tea into the sitting room and stretches out on the sofa very carefully.

“I take it that went well.” John says over his laptop.

“Most satisfactory.” Sherlock murmurs into his tea. 

“So I heard.” John grins to himself. 

 

When Lestrade wakes up the next morning there’s a text message blinking on his phone. 

_It appears I like surprises. SH_

Lestrade blinks at his phone. _What does that mean?_ he responds.

_I would not be averse to another surprise at a later date. I still owe you a cup of tea. SH_

Lestrade smiles.


End file.
